


Anyone's Cup of Tea

by Corviscorvax, mortuus_lingua



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Egregious use of the f word, Hufflepuff Crowley, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Rating May Change, Ravenclaw Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2020-10-19 16:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20660147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corviscorvax/pseuds/Corviscorvax, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortuus_lingua/pseuds/mortuus_lingua
Summary: Hogwarts fifth years Anthony Crowley and Azira Fell have had an Arrangement, but that's all bound to fall apart as the Yule Ball approaches and Crowley attempts to redefine their relationship. He hadn't counted on Fell's obliviousness or his own ineptitude to get in the way.





	1. A Snake in the House of Badgers

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me in a flash one night, and after discussing its details with CorvisCorvax, I began to write it out. Many thanks to her and her ideas about the Arrangement and her advise on expanding certain sections.

The thing about Hogwarts’s Houses, Crowley mused as he stalked to the library, was that everybody got a sort of skewed idea of the archetypal house member. If there was one thing he knew very well, it was that there wasn't just one typical  _ anything _ . Sure, there was some sort of truth in the fact that Gryffindors were courageous, Slytherins were self-serving, Ravenclaws were intellectuals, and Hufflepuffs just wanted everyone to get along… that wasn't a lie. The monumental untruth of it was that there were so many other versions within each of these houses

Take Ravenclaws, for example ( _ or one Ravenclaw in particular _ , Crowley`s hindbrain slyly supplied). Certainly you had competitive intellectual ones, but you also had pedantic Ravenclaws who merely took pleasure in being know-it-alls just so they had something to talk about. Then you had others who quietly pursued knowledge for the sake of knowledge, you know, the ones who went about the business of slowly dissolving into the environs of the closest library or bookstore.

Crowley turned the corner and a bevy of first years scattered out his way at the last moment before collision, led by a familiar golden-haired imp of the first order. "Young!" Crowley barked. "What is this I heard about you Cursing cousin Ligur? Don't let Snape catch you at it. He`s a Basilisk if ever I saw one."

"You would certainly know!" the cheeky youth proclaimed with a grin, careening breathlessly to a stop with his coterie behind him. Crowley recognized the Them - redhaired Moonchild of Gryffindor (known as Pepper if you knew what was best for you), Wensleydale of Ravenclaw (no one knew his first name), and Brian Tadfield from Hufflepuff, a rather grubby specimen whom Crowley had had to police now and then about the state of his uniform. In fact the chubby dustbin was attempting to slide his bulk behind his chums in an attempt to be invisible.

"Oh, none of that, coz! I get enough of that from Hastur, speaking of cousins."

"The Crowley coat of arms literally has a snake on it," Pepper impetuously pointed out.

"And you have a suspicious, snakey birthmark," Wensleydale supplied.

Tadfield, forgetting he was trying to be inconspicuous, added: "And weird eyes."

Adam glanced at the Them and sighed repressively. "Crowley`s all right. He's the only one from that side of the family that doesn't treat me like a piranha."

Crowley, in the middle of adjusting his sunglasses, opened his mouth to correct the boy but then shook his head. He supposed  _ piranha _ was an apt enough description. Crowley's uncle had been surprised that his hitherto secret lover's half-blood son would receive a Hogwarts letter, but everyone was shocked to discover that AdamYoung had a natural talent for wandless magic far exceeding anyone in the Crowley family going back four generations. To Crowley`s delight, Adam's mere existence had knocked a few pure blood theorists in the family back for a loop. To add to his happiness, Adam's enemies tended to regret anything they said or did that got anywhere near to striking a nerve. Cousins Ligur and Hastur were particularly afflicted, sharing as they did the same Hogwarts house as Adam, and especially lacking in the skill of discretion. 

Crowley was entirely unsympathetic to those two. They’d hated Crowley when he was the apple of their grandfather’s eye, and they hated him even more now that Crowley was not fulfilling the expectations of the right and noble house of his ancestors. Hastur and Ligur never passed an opportunity to remind him that he was now the family Disappointment.

“With all that Pure Blood ideology, I’m not surprised that most of our cousins are idiots,” Crowley drawled. “It’s a miracle that we have two brain cells to rub together.”

Adam laughed. “Speak for yourself. After all,  _ I know where you’re going and why _ .”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open but he closed it with a snap. Adam did have an uncanny ability to strike at the heart of things. “You do not, you cheeky monkey. Off with you!”

Adam’s giggles followed him as strode indignantly to the library doors. He heard Pepper’s faint mutter: “Is he really a Hufflepuff, like  _ really really _ ?”

“Hufflepuff as they get,” Adam’s voice answered before the library doors closed behind Crowley and the rest of their words were silenced.

“What does he know?  _ Hufflepuff as they get _ !” Crowley groused as he paused to take in the silence of the library in twilight. He glanced at the restricted section with a wry eye but continued on; he knew where he was heading, as if the path was lit under his feet. 

Turning right past the seventh range of bookshelves, he could see the light of a hovering enchanted lamp against the far wall, and followed it around another bend to find his destination, a fair-haired Ravenclaw hunched over an open book, a half-empty trolley of tomes to be reshelved abandoned beside him. 

Crowley paused. It was only in the presence of this one person that he truly ever paused, because it was in his nature that Crowley was always on the prowl, always making a plan, always in motion in either mind or body. Everything in him found peace with this person, and had from the very beginning.

The Ravenclaw in question looked up from his reading and beamed with artless affection, blue eyes gleaming. “Crowley,” he murmured.

Crowley swallowed, and stepped forward. “Fell,” he returned nonchalantly, as if passing by chance.

Azira Fell straightened in his chair and looked about, as if surprised by his surroundings. “Oh dear,” he said, tugging his sweater in place and straightening his tie.”I’m afraid I’ve lost track of time.” He shut the book and placed it on the trolley, then turned swiftly to look at Crowley. “Ah, was there something you needed?”

Now that was a loaded question, Crowley reflected wryly, but when he tried to reply, all that came out was: “Well, I … uh…”

“I shouldn’t wonder that you’ve already sat for your exams,” Fell continued on obliviously, standing to gather a satchel, a quill, and a notebook. “Or am I mistaken and this is, after all, about the Arrangement?”

“No, not the Arrangement,” Crowley croaked.  _ The damned Arrangement _ , he inwardly seethed. It had gotten him through History of Magic and Divination for the last few years, and Fell's grades in Herbology and Defense against the Dark Arts were better than they would have been without their mutual tutoring, but now it hung about his neck like a rope he might hang himself with. They'd been study friends for years - How did someone change the nature of such a relationship this late in the game?

Fell approached, slinging his satchel’s strap over his shoulder and fussily making sure the clasps were laid flat. “I’ve missed dinner, my dear fellow. Shall we walk together at least as far as the kitchens? I imagine you have plans for the holidays, or are you staying on?”

“Hm? There’s a big to-do this winter at the family seat, which will be torture of course, as all family gatherings are. You?”

“Anathema and I plan to visit Oxford. There’s an exhibition of prophetic writings at the Bodleian that I am all atwitter to view. My brothers will be happy to have me gone; it’s mutual."

This was so typical that Crowley chuckled fondly. "The best Christmas present is the one you give yourself, eh?"

"What? Oh yes, I see. I suppose so! Say, shall we see each other before leaving? I have a small gift, nothing much really, to give you before you go." 

As Fell`s face was turned aside, he didn't see Crowley's face redden, and the poor Hufflepuff`s flustered twitching. 

"Actually, there's something I've been meaning to-"

"Oh. Yes?" Fell's kind eyes turned to him and he stopped walking, suddenly so intensely expectant that Crowley's tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth.

"Yeah, that is, uh, will you… are you, uh, thinking about...Yule Ball?" he managed, aghast that what he was saying only vaguely represented what he meant to convey.

For some reason, Fell's expression turned blank, and then the Ravenclaw turned and started to walk again, now at a much faster clip, so fast that Crowley had to struggle to keep up. "Oh, I shouldn't think so. Awkward business, and not my cup of tea. And my goodness, dressing up!  _ You'll _ have no problem either way, I'm sure. My goodness, it's much later than I thought! Do excuse me." And he shot off, leaving Crowley agape and gasping.

The young man now stood alone in a dark hallway, blinking. "What. Was.  _ That _ ?!”

Azira Fell’s heart was thudding heavily in his chest as he walked briskly to Ravenclaw House, his appetite thoroughly dead. Who was he to be jealous, to be upset? Anthony Crowley - svelte, intense, and perfect - would of course be going to the Yule Ball with someone equally as fabulous, and why not? Azira was inept at everything but reading books, frumpy, and no one’s first choice, and certainly not someone Anthony Crowley would ...

Oh, why even think about it? Azira’s inability to hear Crowley tell him his plans was entirely cowardly. Oh, why had he run away? Such unseemly behavior!

He would have rushed through the Ravenclaw common room had he not been confounded by a group of his fellow housemates, including their prefect, standing up from their chairs at his entrance.

He stopped and cleared his throat nervously. By long-standing tradition, Azira did not have much to do with his upperclassmen who seemed to disapprove of his erratic losing and winning of house points depending on what book had his attention during the time he should be attending class. 

“Well?” Prefect Mikhaela Taxiarchis demanded, hands on her hips.

“Well what?” Azira asked nervously. 

Everyone looked at each other and then at him with a contempt he did not understand. “Really, Fell, are you sure you’re a  _ Ravenclaw _ ?” Taxiarchis drawled, and they all drifted away, shaking their heads. “More like that Hufflepuff!” someone tittered.

_ What on Earth, _ Azira thought as he climbed the stairs to the Fifth Year dormitory. He was emptying his satchel onto his bed when Remi in the bed next to his pushed aside the bed curtains, and demanded: “So, did he ask you?”

“ _ Who _ ask me  _ what _ ?”

“Merlin, ‘Zira, did Crowley finally grow the spine to ask you to the Yule Ball or not?!”

“ _ What _ ?!” Azira scattered his notebooks across his duvet in astonishment. “What are you talking about? Crowley didn’t ask …. me…” He stood there, his mind reeling, replaying his last conversation with Crowley and seeing exactly where it had gone so terribly wrong. “Oh, fuck!” he cried.

Crowley’s Hufflepuff housemates looked up from their occupations when he dragged himself through the common room. Concerned looks were exchanged. The usually deferential Mei Chang followed him to the stairs to the dorms. “Did you ask him?” she asked him timorously. 

“He didn’t want to go; it’s not his thing,” Crowley mumbled dejectedly. 

“So, he said no?” she prodded with uncharacteristic intensity.

“Oh, shove it, Mei,” he spat. “I didn’t even get to ask him, all right! I’m not his cup of tea. Makes sense -I’m not  _ anyone _ ’s cup of tea.” He stalked up the stairs, and into his dorm; it felt like he could sleep a hundred years. As he was pulling off his shoes as aggressively as one could, he thought back to the last thing he’d said, and it rang now in his head over and over - _ I didn’t even get to ask him _ . “Merlin’s balls!” he yelled at the universe in general, and any listening higher entity in particular. “Anyone else want to take the piss while we’re at it?!”

He should not have said that. No, that was asking for pure trouble, that was.


	2. Everyone's Cup of Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are awkward when our boys are so oblivious, but somehow they muddle through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week, another chapter! Having a fun time writing our angel and demon into the Wizarding World. If you're wondering, this takes place after Harry Potter.

Crowley slept in, of course. He also dreamed. He dreamed of great white swan wings curling about him, keeping him safe, and a soft voice murmuring his name over and over into his ear. “Crowley.”

“Crowley.”

“Crowley!”

“Crowley,  _ wake the fuck up _ already!” 

He woke up with a jerk, his dorm-mate yelling his name and casting a freeze jinx on him, which was the agreed-upon method of getting him up when all else failed… bloody uncomfortable, and he did a bit of yelling of his own, of course.

As it was, he barely had time to dress; the common room was deserted as he sprinted through it with his glasses held in his teeth while he tried to push his hair out of his face with his hands. He rushed past the kitchens and up the stairs to the ground floor, only passing a few foot-dragging Gryffindors along the way.

Food was still on the tables, and most of them were still full of chatting students, so he took a breath and slowed his course, carefully avoiding looking at the Ravenclaw table.

As he came up to his usual spot at the Hufflepuff table, nice and toasty next to the hearth, several fellow Fifth Years stood up. He paused cautiously at this strange behavior, lifting his eyebrow in inquiry. Then Arlis Diggory, captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, motioned to his own seat. “Crowley! I’d be honored if you would join me in -”

“Now hold on a minute!” cried the Head Girl. “You can choose from half of Hogwarts. Let some of us try first.”

“This isn’t about fairness,” she was told. “This is about someone taking Crowley to the Yule Ball who can give him a good time. You’re out of luck.”

Crowley’s heart dropped down into his stomach even as the shock of disbelief immobilized him. “Are you all mad?” he shouted. “I’d expect this sort of cruelty from Slytherins, but  _ Hufflepuffs _ ?!”

But all he received was looks of aggrieved surprise. He shook his head, snagged an apple from the table, and looked up just in time to see the familiar blond, round figure of Fell leaving the hall, followed by Device, who was glaring at Crowley over her shoulder so pointedly, that it was clear that part of the strange exchange at his table had been witnessed.

When he turned back around to his house-mates, the expression on his face made those standing next to him back up a couple of paces. “All right,” he growled, “you lot need to start explaining, and  _ fast _ .”

Of course it was the stupidest, barmiest explanation ever to be explained, but by the time Crowley and Mei Chang got to the greenhouses, Crowley had the essentials. “You’re all loons, you are,” he hissed at her before advancing to the far end to get his assignment from Professor Sprout. It did warm him a bit that his House-mates were concerned about him, but considering that glare Device had sent his way, their well-meaning actions might have worsened the situation.

Now that exams were over and there were only a few days left until hols, everyone was working on half-day projects. Hufflepuffs were helping with the plants and the greenhouses, getting them wintered in and making sure every plant was protected as the temperatures were dropping nightly now. Sprout had long ago given Crowley the keys to Greenhouse Three, which housed the more .... temperamental plants: moody adolescent Mandrakes and frisky carnivorous Fanged Geranium, to name a few. 

He grabbed the water mister on his way in and began giving orders immediately; there was no time for slacking off: “All right, listen up! There’s no room for lackadaisical behavior in this greenhouse. Winter is coming! You know what that means. Some of you without the fiber to pull through may not make it; winter is not kind to the weak!” Plants shivered all about him in a satisfying way as he set about making sure every pot was watered and enough straw was packed about the roots of the more cold-susceptible species.

He knew Fell and Device were assigned to help Professor Trelawney organize her offices, which were notoriously a right mess. Apparently when the inner eye was occupied, cleaning and putting things away were low priority. Her offices were in the east tower behind the divination classroom.

As soon as his duties were accomplished, he took off to intercept Azira Fell.

He heard Device’s voice first. “1006: The snake in the house of badgers defies the serpent’s nest.”

Crowley stopped, confused and hoping to hear more from his vantage outside the door. He was rewarded by the murmur of Fell’s soft voice: “That could mean anything.”

Crowley doubted that. His grandfather called him a “snake in the badger’s house.”

“1215: The serpent’s feathers blacken the sky, but the white swan accepts his embrace.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense, Anathema; I thought we were talking about Crowley.”

“387: Angel of the rising star, shelter in the lee of the crow.”

“That’s… that’s not, I mean… fuck!”

Crowley couldn’t contain himself anymore, and walked into the musty space. Like most of Trelawney’s offices, it was mostly in shadows except for a beam of light falling from a window, the drapes of which had been moved aside. It illuminated Azira sitting on the floor amidst piles of books; he held one in his hands and his glowing face was uplifted to the girl standing above him with a stack of index cards in her hands. 

‘That’s some language there, Fell,” he said mildly, lounging against the door jamb. “Does Flitwick know you’re profaning his House with that tongue?”

He’d succeeded in catching them off guard. Anathema’s cards flew out of her hands, and with a frustrated cry, she scrambled after them, while Azira turned back to the bookshelf to place his book there as if Crowley wasn’t there and nothing was amiss. He continued to shelve books while Crowley glided into the dim space. 

“What are you doing here, Crowley?” Device demanded, blowing her long, dark hair out of her flushed face.

“Was done with the greenhouse, right, and wanted a few words with His Bookishness.” He nodded to the back of Fell’s head. 

He expected more glaring, but Device sighed. “Well, maybe he’ll listen to you. He isn’t very cooperative today.” At this, Fell’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t turn around, nor stop what he was doing. “See you at lunch, Azira,” she added before tossing her hair and stomping of the room. 

Crowley whistled low and long. “Whatever did you do to get her into such a snit?”

Fell didn’t answer, picking up another book and examining it before making space for it in whatever system of organization Trelawney had set up. From what Crowley could see, it wasn’t alphabetization by author, or arrangement by size or color. 

Crowley waited for a bit, trying to figure out the sequence, then cleared his throat, staring up at the cobwebbed rafters of the ceiling. “Look, about last night -”

This did get a reaction. Fell’s hand stilled on the book in his lap and he sat up straighter. “Yes?” he asked in a tone that was more allied with trepidation than anything else.

“I hope our, um, friendship is still sound, you know, still?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Fell demanded, turning in the circle of dust-motes and sunlight, his cerulean blue eyes wide and confused. He seemed to have forgotten that he had been giving Crowley the silent treatment for the last several minutes. 

“I hesitate to point out that you literally ran away from me last night as if Dementors were after you. That seemed to indicate, well, some bad feeling.”

Fell put a hand over his mouth in dismay. “Oh, Crowley, I do apologize! You may talk all you want about the Yule Ball and I shall be as good as gold. I was not… I wasn’t feeling very well, you see…” he trailed off, and at this point it was clear that he was lying. It wasn’t hard for someone like Crowley to see through someone like Fell - he had no skill at subterfuge and a very open face. 

But this fell in the shadow of what Fell had begun with. Crowley addressed this first. “Why would I want to talk about the Yule Ball?”

Fell’s blond eyebrows quirked: “Aren’t you going? I mean, I know that you like that sort of … er, event.”

Crowely frowned in return. “I’m not going,” he said flatly, because of course, Fell didn’t want to go with him, and Crowley wasn’t the sort of fellow who felt he needed a runner-up to fill the gap. Normally, he would go, and he said so: “The Yule Ball is all right, of course, but going by one’s self is…” He stopped. Fell had the strangest expression on his face. “Are you all right?”

“You’re not going with someone?”

At this point, the conversation was beginning to feel as if they were talking on two different levels, and a current of frustration and confusion was starting to make Crowley anxious. “I just told you I wasn’t!”

“But, this morning, Diggory was…”

“Sweet Circe, they were trying to cheer me up, is all. It was stupid, but I suppose I should feel thankful they wanted to help me out when I was feeling low.”

There was that sensation once again, as if Fell wasn’t understanding what Crowley was saying; it was reflected in his expressive face. “So you are not going to the Yule Ball because you don’t have anyone to take…?”

Now that was plain cruel. Crowley just shook his head. “Stop talking about the dance, Fell."

"But - oh! If you're not…" he paused exactly long enough for the words  _ going to the dance _ , "and I'm not…" He paused again and Crowley huffed impatiently. "Then, perhaps we can do something together, just the two of us!"

Crowley's mouth dropped open. "Uh…" Despite his best efforts, not much else came out as his brain struggled with the unexpected development.

The Ravenclaw’s face fell. "Unless - oh, it's a silly idea! You probably have plans. You'd rather be where people are..."

Crowley, who had been fending off a sense of unreality during most of the conversation, came suddenly awake into crystal clarity like a swimmer breaking through the surface of water for the first breath of air.

"Yes! I mean, no, it's not a silly idea!" he exclaimed, almost shouting in his haste to make himself understood.

Fell, finally standing up, stumbled, and Crowley grabbed his arm. He shouldn't have been, but he had always been astonished at how solid Fell was, the space he filled, because he always appeared to be made of light and air, only partially in the world. He felt his face grow hot as Fell laid his hand on his forearm, breathing hard in surprise. When he straightened, the blond curls atop his head brushed Crowley’s chin. 

A moment of silence stretched until Fell cleared his throat. “But you like parties,” he whispered and bit his lip uncertainly.

The urge to kiss him flashed through Crowley like an unexpected curse hitting home. “I do,” he admitted hoarsely, “but you don’t.”

Fell’s mouth fell open in surprise. “I, er, yes… but, if for example I went with you, then in return will you go with me to Hogsmeade? Then you could go with me…”

“To the Yule Ball,” Crowley supplied, dazed.

“...and I can go with you to Hogsmeade.”

“But,” Crowley said, dazed, “you don’t even  _ like _ parties.”

“Yes,” Fell said brightly, eyes benevolent, “but  _ you _ do.”

That was when Crowley kissed him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hadn't originally thought a kiss might happen this early, but it seemed to flow naturally in that direction.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this installment!


	3. Firsts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First kisses and a visit to Gladrags; Anathema is having far too much fun at Azira's expense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a lot of fun writing this chapter!

Crowley never underestimated the value of first kisses. He'd delivered a few, received a few, so he felt he knew what to expect.

He knew that surprise first kisses, begun in a rush of adrenaline, were always awkward. He knew that a first kiss was the first taste. He knew that it was also a test and experiment at the same time.

He had imagined kissing Azira Fell more often than he wanted to admit, pretty much from the first time he knew what kissing was like. In his Third Year, he had come back from a particularly traumatic winter holiday during which a female cousin had attempted to seduce him on New Year’s. Returning to Hogwarts, he had met Fell in the courtyard for a game of gobstones, and the amazing reality of the bookish Hufflepuff had struck Crowley - laughing at the distracted Crowley as he steadily lost the game, lit up like a flame and bringing peace to Crowley’s mind.

He knew then that he fancied Azira Fell something rotten, and for the first time in his life, he didn't have a plan.

Stupidly, he thought he knew what it would feel like when he finally took the plunge.

Clearly he was a blathering idiot.

First of all, it was not awkward because Fell merely closed his eyes when Crowley leaned forward, and waited for the press of lips. There was a mutual sigh at the first innocent touch; Crowley felt as if everything was turning warm and gooey. Fell made a little noise and clutched at his arm but when Crowley pressed a bit hard and closer, the clutch became a shackle. Fell, Crowley remembered, was stronger than he looked, which resulted in Crowley kissing empty air. 

He hadn’t imagined it like that, being stopped after barely a taste.

“Wha-?” he asked intelligently, interpreting Fell’s halting grip and withdrawal as criticism of the quality of the kiss. “Too soon?”

Fell’s cheeks were red and he bit his lip in a very distracting manner. “Too fast,” he managed. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” He released the Hufflepuff’s arm and stepped back, clearing his throat.

Crowley rubbed his lip, cocking his head and considering, not for the first time, a bit of convincing. Generally, that was his way of getting around obstacles to any of his many goals; he had only one dorm-mate in the warmest room in the Hufflepuff Set, the keys to Greenhouse Three, and the smartest Ravenclaw in FIfth Year tutoring him in Divination, the one class most students failed. He had managed to get that self-same Ravenclaw to kiss him. He was talented at convincing people of his deservedness. “Are you sure about that?”

“Very sure,” Azira said with flinty finality, tugging his vest into place. “After all, we haven’t even held hands yet.”

Crowley grinned. “Well, that can be resolved easily enough.”

They held hands on their way to lunch, and into the Great Hall. 

Azira reluctantly tugged his hand free once they were within the large doors, flushing at the attention they were receiving, a growing wave of heads turning, fingers pointing, and a rise of volume in conversation. It was school hours, and in their uniforms, it would be impossible to sit with each other without the teachers noticing. Headmistress McGonagall had eyes sharper than a hawk and a habit of deducting House Points at the slightest impropriety.

Crowley would break Azira of that rule-following habit soon enough, but not now. The spontaneous applause from both the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables at their entrance into the hall might make it harder to convince Azira to keep up the public display of affection.

“So, he said yes to the Yule Ball, I take it?” Mei asked him with a grin.

“He bargained that he’d go with me if I went with him to Hogsmeade,” Crowley said, picking at the bowl of curry chips which appeared as soon as he sat down. 

Many voices rose up then, asking him if that were true, that Fell hadn’t technically said yes, that Crowley finally caught on: “Bugger me, did you lot just bet on me?”

That shout cost them ten points from Hufflepuff.

Azira sat next to Anathema in a daze, not responding to the chattering around him until Taxiarchis began to bully him for the facts. “Cough it up, Fell. Galleons are on the line.”

“I - what?”

Eventually he provided enough information to stop his house-mates from pestering him, but he was still not entirely disconnected from the sensation of Crowley’s (should he start referring to him as Anthony now?) mouth on his, and the heat that was still making him feel a bit melted - mind body and heart.

When Anathema grabbed his elbow and marched him up to the head table, he shuffled mindlessly along with her until she said: “Professor Flitwick, we need your help.”

“We do?” he asked, befuddled.

The nattily dressed wizard gazed upon them, beaming. “Yes, Miss Device? How may I aid my clever Ravenclaws?”

“Azira here is unexpectedly going to the Yule Ball.”

The clever little wizard regarded Azira gravely. “I see.”

“What do you see?” Azira asked defensively, aware that both Flitwick and Anathema were looking at him with some pity. “I can dance! My mother made me take lessons.”

“Did she also pack you formal robes that won’t shame Ravenclaw and all your friends?” Anathema asked with raised eyebrows and crossed arms. She knew very well that, outside of this school uniform, he had a few worn and comfortable items. "Considering who you're going with, you'd think you'd want to make an effort, Azira."

"Ah, was that what the fuss was about?" their head of house inquired. "Young Crowley of Hufflepuff?"

Azira flushed self-consciously.

"Dear me, Miss Device, you do have your job cut out for you! I will excuse you from your afternoon projects and give permission. Do not be late for dinner!"

"W-why would we be late for dinner?" Azira stuttered as Anathema grabbed him by the hand and towed him along again, this time through the great doors. He looked around for Crowley and spotted him bent over the Hufflepuff table in furious low-toned argument with a huddle of housemates.

"Get your coat and your coins; we're shopping at Gladrags!"

“It’s a waste of money!” Azira protested, his words making mist in the air. Unfortunately Gladrags Wizardwear was very stylish and international, with locations in Paris, London, and the only wizarding-only village of Hogsmeade. It meant its clothes started at expensive and proceeded to unbelievable as they grew more bespoke.

“What are you worried about? Your family lives in a palace, and even if you don’t have cash, I’m rolling in good investments - I can get twenty new frocks and you twenty new suits, and it wouldn’t leave a dent.”

Azira blinked at his friend; sometimes he forgot that Anathema was American, and worse yet, “new money” American. She talked about expenses with crass negligence, calling people rich or poor so casually, as if it weren’t incredibly rude.

“Do stop talking about money,” he grumbled as they approached the impeccable, glass-paned storefront. It was unholy cold and they were standing outside.

“You started it!” she exclaimed, annoyed, but then smiled widely as they entered into the rarified quiet interior and up to the waiting proprietor. “Good afternoon, we have permission from our professor, here, and I hope you can help my friend. He’s going to the Yule Ball with someone very cutting edge, you see.”

“Oh, my dear, of course we’d be glad to help,” the lady replied, with a perfect smile on a perfectly made-up face and coiffed hair, not to mention perfectly tailored suit. “And how cutting edge are we anticipating?”

“Anthony Crowley level of fashion,” Anathema said sweetly, just to watch the woman blanche and look at Azira with startled awe and growing concern as her gaze traveled over his faded beige coat and tan tartan scarf. 

“I don’t want to  _ dress like Crowley _ !” Azira cried. 

He wasn’t sure if he shouldn’t be offended that the proprietor looked relieved. “Oh, of course not, young sir! No, I do believe contrast will be key to our decisions today. Do step this way, Mr. --”

“Fell,” Azira supplied. 

Suddenly there were two more salespeople behind her, and the woman was saying; “Of the Fells of Arthur’s Seat?”

“...yes,” Azira admitted, flushing, “but I’d rather not have the family crest on anything.”

This was the first Anathema had heard of this part of Azira’s identity. “Family crest, like a coat of arms?”

“Oh, it’s so old-fashioned and flashy - the sort of things one puts on signet rings and plaques in the old homes. Wings and fiery swords and what-not.”

“Wow,” his friend pronounced, then winked and wandered over to the frocks section. 

“This way, love,” the young male salesperson said to Azira, motioning him over to the back room to get measured. While the magical tape did its song and dance about Azira’s body, the ladies returned with fabrics for formal robes, and thankfully they were not black. Everything from pale grey to brightest white to which Azira nodded or shook his head before they went away again, conferring. 

“Surely there isn’t enough time--?” Azira ventured, concerned. Yule Ball was days away, and they had to be flooded with custom from disorganized and panicking students.

“For one robe, we can manage if we get onto it this afternoon. Not a lot of students with written permission to go shopping today; you must be important,” the young man replied. “The rest will have to be off the rack, but that shouldn’t be too difficult - just resizing charms when needed.”

Azira opened his mouth, then closed it. Finally, he said: “You all know Anthony Crowley?”

The young man was gathering up the magical tape, tapping it here and there to produce floating symbols in the air that he was examining with interest. “Number One customer of your year,” he said after a moment, waving Azira down from the small dias he was standing on, “and very interested in the latest fashion. Has the right frame for it, too, doesn’t he? All legs.” At this he grinned cheekily. “Have a seat - I’ll send the boss you way.”

“ _ The right frame for it _ ,” Azira muttered, gazing at the several mirrors reflecting back his image. Short, pale, and stocky - nothing terribly special about him at all. What was he doing here?

But then the proprietress returned with a stack of drawings and a wide grin: “I have such inspiration! Something light that will flair out when you dance, and we will find matching trousers, shirt and vest in whatever complementary colors you prefer.”

Azira sighed and mournfully eyed the top drawing of a gallant figure, not even remotely resembling Azira (or most young men, to be truthful), in full stride with his robe billowed out behind him. The robe was white, and vented in the back. What was that, the design of the back of the robe?

Triumphantly, the proprietress whisked away the top drawing to reveal details of the back, two graduated layers with that triangular vent, scalloped along the vent edges like…

“Are those wings?” Azira exclaimed.

“Count yourself lucky it wasn’t a flaming sword up the backside instead,” Anathema consoled him as they walked back to Hogwarts, clutching their coats about themselves. 

“Wings!” Azira cried. aggrieved. “I’m going to look ridiculous.”

“Nonsense. Gladrags doesn’t allow their patrons to look ridiculous; bad for business. When they fitted the form on you, it looked nice enough, and with details it should be rather splendid. I got a lovely dress myself; all I have to do is ask him, I guess.”

“Ask… wait,  _ you  _ don’t have someone to go with you yet? I thought that it was all decided already.”

“Oh, it’s decided all right. Prophecy 1463: The lion-newt shall be anathema’s prince.” The girl grinned. 

Azira frowned to himself. “Do you mean Newton Pulsifer, Gryffindor Sixth year? Newt, the cauldron-exploder?”

Anathema laughed. “You mean the one who breaks curses by looking at them? That’s the one.”

The young man paused. “Anathema, you do  _ like _ him, don’t you? It’s not just…” He searched for the polite way of implying that she took too much stock in her prophetess-ancestor and gave it up for a loss. 

His friend slanted him a glance. “Well, that’s the point of asking him to the ball - to get to know him. Not that you two will need the ball for that. How long have you two been…?”

“You know very well the answer! We’ve had our Arrangement since Second Year.”

“No need to be cagey. I meant this change of relationship. Everyone’s been waiting for it to happen since last year. We were so sure Crowley would have started things at the beginning of term. He had that look about him, as if he were desperately wanting to say something to you.”

“He did?” Azira wondered aloud.

Anathema sighed. “Both of you are so oblivious; it’s like one of those stories where the two characters are pining for each other but too afraid to say.”

“I hope you aren’t suggesting I’m Mr. Rochester!”

“No, of course not. You’re Jane Eyre, no mistake.”


	4. Piece of Puff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley wants another kiss, and also he wants to know Azira's colors for the ball. He would also like Hastur to stop talking trash about Azira. He only gets one of these things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure why this was such a struggle, except there were things I wanted to do that had to happen later in the timeline and so had to figure out the middle of the plot.
> 
> FYI Snape is alive in this one, although it's after Harry Potter. IDK - I want Snape alive and so he is. :)

Chapter Four: Piece of Puff

Of course, Crowley was waiting for them at the entrance of the Great Hall, attempting to appear casual. The effect was ruined by Hastur and Ligur on either side of him, hissing and spitting, although the Hufflepuff had all the appearance of someone a moment away from swatting an annoying fly from his ear. 

When Azira and Anathema turned the corner, pulling off their hats, Crowley straightened up from his lounging against the stone wall, and Hastur sneered: “There’s your piece of fluff now, cousin. Hope you have good use of him!”

Crowley extended a middle finger as casually as if he were breathing, and turned a charming smile at Azira. “Fell, off to Hogsmeade without me? I’m hurt.” He nodded to Anathema. “Device.”

“Crowley. See you inside, Azira.”

Azira nodded, distracted by the retreating figures of Crowley’s cousins. “What were they on about?”

“Eh, the usual. Like I care about their opinions, or anyone else’s. But, Hogsmeade, Fell! With Device!”

“Oh, it wasn’t a pleasant outing. Freezing cold and hours in Gladrags being stared at and made to make  _ choices _ .”

Crowley perked up at that, and even took off his usual dark glasses. Azira loved his golden eyes and was so happy to see them that the next questions quite got by him. “Come again?”

“I said, you were at Gladrags the whole time? You  _ must _ be hungry! Before you go in, though, tell me: what color?”

Azira blinked, then saw a ray of light. “Oh, uh… You know, I rather think I won’t tell you.”

The Hufflepuff’s eyebrows rose. “Really? You’re sure? Not just a little bit?”

Azira, already a bit faint from hunger and distracted by the chatter from the Great Hall, gave him a stern look.

Crowley grinned, showing all his teeth. “All right. I will just have to convince you later.” He made as to ruffle Azira’s blond curls, but the Ravenclaw ducked and admonished him: “Crowley,  _ really _ !” He huffed his way through the doors, his friend trailing behind and laughing.

After dinner was traditionally free time for students, within bounds, and only in certain areas. The clocktower courtyard was popular but it was too cold for much more than a brisk walk, and Hogwarts grounds weren’t much better. Club meetings were winding down for the holidays, and Hogsmeade was out of bounds for those without special passes until the last day before the Yule Ball. The common rooms were packed with bored and excited students messing around with their mates, but for those whose friends were outside of their Houses, there were only a few legitimate options. Crowley, of course, was not interested in  _ legitimate _ any more than your average mischievous student,  _ and _ he had a key for Greenhouse Three.

While he waited for Fell, he patrolled among his plants. None of them were blooming, sadly. The wrong season for it, and even he could not bully a Fanged Geranium to blossom in the winter. Unfortunate, as he would like to offer Fell a flower for the dance. Would be grand if it amazed them all, as well. He’d have to take a stroll through the other greenhouses to see if any odd blooms were still hanging on. 

Someone tapped on the glass panes by the door, and a distinctly blond head tilted into view. Crowley unlocked it, letting Fell in, who was bundled charmingly in his faded beige coat and tartan scarf, his breath steaming in the air. Crowley took a quick look outside before locking the door against the growing cold, and curious eyes. 

“Oh,” Fell exclaimed with delight, unwrapping himself a little, “it’s warmer in here!”

“That’s the point of greenhouses,” Crowley chuckled, sidling close. He’d made sure to turn the lights down to their dimmest, and he was ready to take advantage of the solitude.

Fell didn’t avoid him, but let him close his hands about his shoulders and pull him close. As Crowley leaned in, Azira leaned back. “Wait, are you trying to kiss me?”

“More than _ trying _ ,” the Hufflepuff muttered, attempting to move in even closer.

“But we haven’t even dated! Goodness, is this… is  _ this a date?” _

“ _ Fell _ !” Crowley cried, incensed. 

“I can’t kiss on the first date!” the Ravenclaw insisted, but there was a twinkle, a sly gleam in the coy look he gave Crowley. “I don’t want to be your  _ piece of puff _ .”

This brought Crowley up short. “What - a piece of what?”  _ Was it getting colder in here? _

Fell put his hands on his hips, blue eyes blazing. He looked good enough to eat, thought Crowley desperately. “What Hastur said: a piece of -”

“ _ Fluff _ , Fell,” the Hufflepuff said through gritted teeth. “He called you a piece of  _ fluff _ . And why by the bloody Sacred Twenty-eight would you even listen to what  _ Hastur _ says? He’s got his head so far up his ass that he thinks romance is licking his own tonsils.” 

Fell’s gaze blanked and he gazed off into the middle distance as if trying to hear something from far away. “That’s - that’s a very colorful metaphor, my boy, and I’m not sure if I’m up to the task of unpacking it just now.”

“Look, you don’t have to-” he started to say, but was distracted by a sudden banging on the doors to the greenhouse, and the fact that Fell responded to this startling noise but almost jumping into his arms in alarm. “Now that’s better!” he said cheerfully but the banging came again, and a familiar young voice called out.

“I say, Crowley, are you in there? You need to return to the castle. They’re locking up the doors.”

“It’s not even seven yet,” Fell whispered quizzically. 

“Like I’d fall for that!” Crowley yelled at the door, and Fell punched him lightly on the shoulder, giving him a telling look. “Oh, right. Probably shouldn’t have just alerted him that we were here.”

The Ravenclaw sighed even as Adam called back: “Hah! I knew you’d be here! There’s a storm coming, you arse! Weren’t you paying attention?”

But Crowley was already running to the door and yanking it open, so Adam could see Azira Fell following and figured he knew the answer to why they hadn’t noticed the whirling snow falling thicker and thicker. 

Professor Snape was standing by the eastern doors, pale face scowling and looking rather like a cross vampire. “Cutting it a bit fine, Crowley, and I have better things to do that wait about for unobservant students,” he commented in that unfairly rich voice of his. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Yes sir,” they all replied in that ingrained way Hogwarts potions students learned in First Year. Snape spelled the doors shut and strode away in a swirl of black robes. 

“Blimey, he didn’t even take off points,” Young pointed out, eyes wide. “He must really like you.” He said this to Crowley.

“Nah, it’s just he knows I’m the only one who can harvest Tentacula venom without a long stay in the hospital wing.”

Fell smiled at him with affectionate pride and Crowley found himself helplessly smiling back. 

Young groaned, “Merlin, you two are sick-making.” He meanderd off, but neither Fifth Years paid much attention.

“So, not even a _ small  _ kiss?” Crowley weedled charmingly, sidling forward. The hallway was bloody cold, this close to the doors, but it was also vacant _ because it was bloody cold _ . He rubbed his arms and soldiered on. “One itsy bitsy small kiss?”

Fell gave him a patent impatient look, but at least he didn’t seem cross. He even looked a bit tempted.. “No, Crowley. That was not remotely a date tonight, and you know it.”

Crowley took another step forward, grinning.. “You could kiss me to warm me up.”

Fell raised his blond eyebrows at this. “You do look cold,” he admitted with a sly look.

“And?”

“And we should definitely go to the kitchens; you can get me some cocoa.”

“Fell, you are no fun.”

“I am plenty of fun,” the Ravenclaw pronounced, leading him further into the castle. He giggled. 

Azira’s favorite place, besides the library, was of course the kitchens. The elves were always making something delicious, and on cold nights in the winter, most of the comforts they were producing were in the form of hot drinks. He cheerfully sat across a small trestle table from Crowley, who naturally the elves seem to know as a usual visitor. They immediately brought the Hufflepuff spiced cider and were back in a twinkle with Azira’s cocoa. Cupping the steaming mugs in their cold hands, they leaned towards each other to whisper their conversation.

A few Hufflepuffs walked by, giggling, on the way to their common room, but Azira only smiled at Crowley when he twitched at this House-mates’ behavior .

Curfew fast approached, and Crowley kindly walked Azira back to the main hall, then stopped abruptly before Azira had to make his turn towards the west towers and his own common room. “Good night,” he said in a cold voice that made Azira feel about an inch high, until the Hufflepuff leaned forward quickly and impishly pecked him on the nose. “Sweet dreams.” He turned about and vanished down a side corridor they’d just passed, leaving Azira to scratching his head. Well, Crowley was known for his sudden changes of mood and shifts of temper...

Crowley turned the corner and immediately stuck out a long arm and grabbed the lurking Hastur by the collar. Ligur was already running, the coward. “Listen, you toad-faced, rancid, untenable abomination. I hear everything you say about me, and I don’t care because anything you say is worthless and has been said a hundred times, but you will SHUT YOUR GOB about Fell.”

Hastur giggled nervously, trying to tug free. “Oh come now, Crowley, watch that temper of yours! Wouldn’t want your little toy to know the kind of wizard he’s taken up with!”

“Every corner you turn, every shadow you see will be me, and I WILL END YOU if he even hears one poisonous word you say about him.”

Something about Crowley’s tone seemed to penetrate. “ All this rage about that blond pansy?”

Crowley let go of him, took a breath, and punched him in the face.

The thing about Crowley that people often forgot was that, although he was a Hufflepuff and not at all interested in continuing the rich tradition of being a right bastard to his fellow students, he had been raised in the House of Crowley, where backstabbing and underhandedness were two skills one sucked with mother’s milk.

While Hastur howled, clutching his bloody nose, Crowley rolled his eyes while he casually cast _ episkey _ and scouring charms. When Hastur straightened up, removing his hands and poking tenderly at his face, he opened his mouth and Crowley waited, ready to deliver another lesson of a similar nature.

Hastur scowled. “I’m telling the Patriarch, you bastard!”

Crowley smiled venomously. “You go right ahead. He’d be  _ so proud of me _ . He might even give me a medal. It’ll be the first thing I’ve done _ in years _ that he’ll be pleased about.”

He watched with some satisfaction as Hastur strode off, swearing, joined by Ligur who had been hiding around the next corner. Crowley whistled to himself as he turned and sauntered his way back towards Hufflepuff. Hastur wouldn’t let it alone, of course, but Crowley had warned him in as honorable a way as he knew how. 

In the meanwhile, he had to figure out how to coordinate his clothes with someone who was refusing to tell him - he smiled. Wait.., of course!

Device would know.

He just needed the right leverage to get her on his side.


	5. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's excited by end of term grades and the upcoming dance. Both Crowley and Azira encounter some conflicts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - the holidays crushed us under far too many obligations. But we're back and creating plot as we go!

Chapter Five:

Azira woke to a silent and cold morning on the last full day of term, huddling under the covers and listening to Ravenclaw Tower around him. It was unnaturally quiet. This was one of the few days during which students were not expected to show up for breakfast, as marks would be distributed by heads of house mid-morning, and quite frankly all the excitement about this night’s dance wore out most students. 

Azira, however, lacked the ability to sleep in and doubly so when there were lists of all sorts to conquer by the end of day. He did appreciate the empty baths, and when he arrived at the Great Hall, only a third of the students were eating. 

He had no expectation of either Device or Crowley showing themselves this early, both for the same reason; they were notorious over-sleepers, if for different reasons. Anathema often got caught up in reading until late at night. Crowley, apparently, overslept when it was cold. He was so infamous for losing so many house points during his first year at Hogwarts, that people still talked about Hufflepuff’s many attempts to resolve the issue which did eventually find success, although not a single Hufflepuff would admit to what strategy they used to get Crowley to morning classes on time. Crowley managed to look so disgruntled when he did slide in at the very last minute, that the general consensus was that jinxes were involved. 

Azira glanced about the hall with mild curiosity; only Pepper was present of Young’s The Them, and almost all of Slytherin was absent but for a few Sixth Year girls clearly talking about the dance over toast.

He was on his second cup of tea and eyeing another rasher of bacon when the familiar screeching of the morning post inspired a swift reversal of motion learned from countless owls dropping all manner of parcels onto one’s nosh. He cleared food away from himself, gauging the distance between himself and the most likely stain-makers on the table with a long-practiced evaluative look.

He was just in time, as three parcels marked with the Gladrags trademark of witch’s hat and stars dropped with a thump and rattle in succession across the table in front of him, one of them almost hitting him on his head. He glanced about, and saw his were not the only deliveries of note. One of the Slytherin girls received a large parcel as well. A few owls circled, and not finding their recipients, flew off again to deposit them in the general post. 

Shoving a piece of bacon into his mouth and quickly dabbing with a napkin, he grabbed up the packages and made his way back to Ravenclaw, avoiding the few students who were out in the hallways. The common room was half-occupied by nervous students waiting for Professor Flitwick to appear with their exam results and a few of them whistled when Azira passed through. “Make yourself pretty, Fell!” someone called, laughing. 

However, on the stairwell, he had the misfortune of passing the Ravenclaw prefect, Mikhaela Taxiarchis, who never passed up an opportunity to make a snide remark at his expense: “You know you’ll have to put out now, Fell. Those Crowleys revel in sin and iniquity. You’ll have to keep him entertained if you don’t want him moving on. Although, if you have half a brain, you’d let him move on; you’re only a passing fancy anyway.”

Azira stopped, staring and aghast. Taxiarchis was never subtle about her dislike of some of those older, dark-magic families, but she hadn’t been quite this pointed about it before.She kept walking downwards, leaving him sputtering indignantly on the stairs before he continued to climb to the dorms.

He winced when he saw his dorm-mates still getting ready for the day, but there was nothing for it. He untied the strings from around the parcels and opened them up on his bed. One was his shoes, dove-gray suede stitched in contrasting white. The other package contained white pants, an ice-blue shirt. and gray velvet vest which he hung up carefully and smoothed down with his hands. Behind him, he was aware of the three boys watching him as he unwrapped the last package, spilling forth pure white silk robes; even he gaped at them, and he knew what to expect!

“Merlin, Fell!” Tachibana exclaimed, coming up next to him to stare down at the obvious design of the back of them, like the settled wings of some great white bird. “I thought you had barely a galleon to your name, the way you dress!”

“There’s nothing wrong with the way I dress!”

“Man, there’s _ everything _ wrong with the way you dress!” Bones joined in. “You and Flitwick’s grandfather might as well have the same tailor. For all we know, your clothes  _ are  _ your grandfather’s!”

“Oh, quit it you two,” the last of the three said arily, looking up from his magazine. Scamander, dubbed “One” because his hour-younger twin was in Hufflepuff, often refereed in dorm squabbles as he seemed to lack even the slightest bit of a temper. “It’s a nice robe, Fell. Based the design on Abraxas wings, looks like.”

Tachibana and Bones both groaned loudly with the air of the oppressed. Scamander One’s parents, both famous magizoologists, had impressed upon their children a rather extensive knowledge of magical creatures since they were infants. Naturally, Scamander and his twin brother were stupidly obsessed with magical creatures.

“Better than a fairy’s, I suppose,” Azira responded half-heartedly as he hung up the robe and smoothed out the fall of white scalloped silk stitched in gray to resemble pinions and feathers.

Bones snickered on his way to the baths while the other two finished getting dressed; it would be the last day they would wear their Hogwarts uniforms for the term. It was traditional to grumble about the fact that they were getting dressed merely to receive their marks.

Crowley, on the other hand, slept, and slept, and slept. It was cold; he was nice and warm coiled up under a pile of covers. Classes were done, and he would eventually get his grades. And, as always, food was a very minor concern. Sleep ruled all. 

Leave it to Professor Sprout to send some traitor in to threaten him out of bed! He stumbled, cursing and mumbling, his feet curled up at the first touch of the cold, stone floor. He managed one fuzzy warm sock, but the other was lost in the folds of the bed. Luckily he found a slipper for the deprived foot and staggered his way down the stairs, eyes still closed and a blanket trailing off of him like an ersatz cloak. He knew he had shuffled into the common room by the voices rising about him. Arlis Diggory grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to Professor Sprout, who was waiting good-naturedly and patient in the middle of the mass of comfortable sofas and chairs that comprised the majority of the Hufflepuff common room, their “set.”

“Really, Mr. Crowley, do sit down before you fall down, and good gracious wherever did you get those night clothes?!” 

Crowley opened his eyes and looked down at himself and his bright yellow flannel pajamas. “What? They’re warm!”

Everyone started laughing. 

“But what in Merlin’s name is all over them? What  _ are  _ those?”

“Oh, those are some sort of classic automobile,” piped a Muggle-born first year from behind an adjacent loveseat. “A model T, or something.”

“I’ll have you know, these are  _ Bentleys _ !” Crowley hissed indignantly, finally awake and read to do battle for the sake of his favorite car. “British engineering at its finest!”

His argument was being drowned out by the general hubbub of distribution of end of term grades, so he sat there for a while fuming until Mei stuck his parchment in front of his nose. “Going to shame the family name again?” she laughed. 

He grumbled and unrolled it, curious despite himself to how he did on his end-of-terms. “Let’s see if I managed potions this year.”

“Oh, with your particular arrangement, I’m sure you did fine,” his friend replied lightly, and laughed. 

“He doesn’t help me with  _ potions _ ,” Crowley mumbled. He’d gotten an Acceptable from Snape, which was as good as most people got who weren’t on the fast track to becoming potions experts. 

Around him, people were moaning their divinations grades. “I got a dreadful!” someone wailed. “Me mum is gun ta boil me alive!”

Professor Sprout tut-tutted and went to comfort the mourning masses while Crowley couldn’t stop a small smile and a silent prayer of thanks to Fell and his tutoring. He was not as subtle as he thought he was, because Mei just gave him a saucy wink.

All in all, he reflected as he trudged up to his dormitory, it wasn’t so bad. Mostly Exceeds Expectations and a few Acceptables. His best grade, of course, was Herbology, but he figured he could get an Outstanding with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back at this point.

Mei could only follow him so far, and all the way she was haranging him about the dance. “What are you wearing? Will you match? Have you given him a flower?”

“Oh, leave off and worry about your own date. Diggory is going to be prettier than you on the dance floor if you don’t start prepping!”

“I  _ hate _ you!”

“You  _ don’t _ .  _ You love me _ !”

To be honest, he knew exactly what Fell was wearing because Crowleys were masters of bribery and subterfuge … and he knew Anathema’s Achilles heel. He hadn’t narrowed down to exactly what he’d wear himself, but it was clear he wasn’t going to have a chance in Hell of matching his date’s attire. Contrast was key, he figured, and if Fell was wearing white wings like some sort of swan then Crowley would have to go in the opposite direction, which to be fair, was not that difficult as most of his wardrobe consisted of black, all the shades of black, including a few that were unmatchable, as in they didn’t match any other shade of black. He had a few jackets with the family emblem, but felt that were entirely too Slytherin looking, and anyway, did he really want to be associated with his family at this juncture? There were those silk robes with the winged snake on them, from his American cousin… it was silver and green, and looked a bit like an occamy… 

“Quetza-something,” he mumbled to himself and went to delve through is expandable trunk. “Quetza-coat? Quetz-coti? Damn, I need to remember this stuff.” Thankfully, he had wrapped his cousin’s letter in the gifted robe and it fell from its folds when he lifted up the garment. “Quetzacoatl!” He threw it on over his night clothes to gauge the fit, and spun a bit to see the flair - it had to flair, after all, because he was Anthony Crowley, and his clothes would be  _ perfect _ .

Half an hour later, decisions about clothing made, Crowley sat cross-legged at the end of the bed and contemplated flowers, which led to contemplating his winter boots, his coat, and how bloody cold it was going to be out in the greenhouses.

He supposed that was the true test of his feelings for Fell; he couldn’t imagine making the effort for anyone else.

Greenhouse Three wouldn’t have any flowers he could use, but it was his greenhouse after all, and checking it was second nature. He stopped abruptly in the middle of the structure, his breath steaming in the cold air… the  _ cold air _ . Why was it so cold in his greenhouse?! Stalking about suspiciously, he found broken panes of glass at the back of the building, hidden by tall cut-back stems of carnivorous roses; if they had been in full bloom, he would not have seen them properly. It wasn’t an accident. Someone had deliberately broken the glass and knocked in a few more in order to open one of the windows. 

A more cautious circle of the greenhouse revealed no trespassers.

A wave of his wand and an elementary reparo later, he was off to Greenhouse Four, where most of the more advanced herbs for potions grew. Dread and anger made his breath come fast; someone had forced the door open on this building but nothing seemed to be disturbed but for a knocked over planter towards the end of the potting benches.

Even more cautiously and with his wand out, he examined Greenhouse Five, where seedlings were usually kept. The door was unlocked and he stepped in slowly. There was nothing of value currently and nothing seemed disturbed, but appearances could be deceiving. Crowley was now riding the adrenaline of outrage which made him more reckless than usual, and when he turned around at shouts of voices in the distance towards Greenhouses One and Two, he never saw it when the spell hit him in the back, but he knew what it felt to be  _ stupefied _ .

Luckily, the spell hit his shoulder and spun him about. He supposed, later, that all those dueling lessons had engrained an instinctive response to an attempted and half-assed  _ stupefy _ , because as he was falling, he managed to fire off one  _ petrificus totalus _ .

He did not know if it hit.


	6. Familiarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery of what happened in the greenhouses continues. The ball looms nearer and nearer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many grateful thanks for the kind comments and kudos! We appreciate your feedback.
> 
> Sorry that it took us a while to get through this chapter, although nothing about it was particularly difficult except general plotting. I added the part about the Fell family geas (see notes at the end of the chapter) because it will be a plot point later on *hint hint* about the Fells in general and Azira specifically. Corvis-corvax added the idea of Crowley's manicure.

The gathering of students in the Ravenclaw common room chattered excitedly and Flitwick, standing on a chair so he could be seen and heard above the crowd, called out each name starting with the seventh years. Of all the Houses, Ravenclaws were particularly keen to know about the end of term grades; Ravenclaw students, after all, came from predominantly Ravenclaw parents, and there were repercussions besides extra tutoring for the next term.

Alphabetically by surname, Anathema got her paper right before Azira and immediately retreated to pour through her various marks. Azira followed, already scanning down the page. A quick sum up proved that there were no Poors or Dreadfuls in his current load of  Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Divination, Ancient Runes and Herbology. Defense Against the Dark Arts and Herbology were never a question, with The Arrangement guaranteeing that Outstandings would always hold there. 

He was naturally strong in Charms, and a whiz at Divination and Ancient Runes, if he did say so himself. His Potions grades never got any better than Exceeding Expectation but most students were happy to not do worse.

Azira’s weakness was and always had been Transfiguration, which was a family weakness since the dawn of time, according to his parents. The Fells seemed to have a block in the blood when it came to changing the shapes of things, almost to the level of a curse. Family myths said someone far far down the family line had made an allegiance with someone so powerful that when betrayal and falling-out happened (as they so inevitably do in such stories), Fell descendants were saddled with a particular set of  _ geasa _ . One of the  _ geas _ was that none of them could transfigure themselves; not a single Fell had ever succeeded in an Animagus spell, nor had been born a Metamorphmagus. This was such a prevalent and accepted restriction, that during Third Year Azira had been exempted from even  _ studying _ Animagi and his parents had told him in no uncertain terms that he was to never attempt a self-changing spell of any sort. The other  _ geas _ was that Fells were abysmal at transfiguring anything. Every generation had hilarious (and not-so-funny) stories of this or that attempt that had backfired with entertaining and sometimes horrifying results. Azira’s personal result was that he had received a mere Acceptable in Transfiguration.

He was just exchanging reports with Anathema when a charmed letter came zipping through the room and smacked into the back of Flitwick’s head. All chatter stopped; flying notes in the castle were always from teacher to teacher, and this one was bright orange, which meant an emergency. The professor handed off the pile of reports to the Prefect standing next to him and opened the letter quickly. It must have been bad, as his face slackened in surprise and concern. “Students,” he cried, “I must attend a serious situation. Please continue passing out your papers.” He hopped down to the floor and made for the door under the bewildered stares of his Ravenclaws. Just at the door, he stopped and turned to look amongst them, spotting Azira. “Mr. Fell, come with me, quickly if you please!”

Gulping and glancing quickly at Anathema in shared confusion, Azira obeyed, rushing after the little professor who was walking at an impressive rate of speed. “Sir?” he asked breathlessly. 

“Yes, Fell, do keep up. I’m off to the … well, never you mind.  _ You _ must go to the hospital wing; young Crowley has been set upon, poor lad, and I imagine he’d like to wake to a friendly face.”

Azira’s breath left him and his legs turned to jelly. Stumbling, he gasped: “... set upon - Crowley?!” Surely not.

“Yes, I’m sorry to say, poor boy. Now  _ do _ go on!” Flitwick pressed the letter in his hand. “And show this if Madame Promfrey has any questions.”

Azira didn’t wait a moment longer but dashed down to the hospital wing while Flitwick took a different route eastwards toward who knew where. His heart hammering, he banged through the doors with eyes wide and breath coming fast.

A cluster of students in Hufflepuff yellow and black obscured a bed midway down the left side of the large room but Madame Pomfrey was immediately bearing down upon Azira with outrage in her eyes. “MISTER Fell!”

“I - I have permission!” Azira cried, waving said piece of orange paper. “Professor Flitwick sent me.”

The lady stared at him with narrowed eyes. “Interfering man,” she murmured with a strangely affectionate half-smile.”Yes, all right. These others may shoo off now.” 

A general Hufflepuff outcry rose but no one dared challenge the stern healer’s face. They shuffled off but strangely enough, sent no glares Azira’s way… just some curious looks and a couple of knowing grins. Azira’s attention was pulled immediately to the bed, to which he rushed, seeing Crowley lying there with a pale face and his long crimson hair spread out on his pillow.

“Oh my dear boy,” he whispered in horrified sorrow and reached for a long-fingered hand lying on the coverlet. 

“Stupefied,” Promfrey said, gliding her wand down the length of Crowley’s still form and frowning thoughtfully at the colors floating in its wake. “Rather clumsily, actually. Oh, don’t worry yourself, young man; he’ll come around soon with no permanent damage.”

Azira sat heavily into a vacated chair next to the bed, clutching Crowley’s hand. “How did… how did it happen, do you know?”

“I do not, except that he was found this way and brought to me, very cold. He’s warm now, the dear poppet; you stay here very quietly, and he should rouse. I’m only allowing faculty in now.”

She strode away, murmuring to herself but Azira couldn’t take his eyes from Crowley. All thoughts of the dance, term grades, and the coming hols - all thoughts that had crowded his mind in the last few days - were gone in the wake of this shock. He stared at the hand in his, Crowley’s longish fingernails painted a glossy black with a gold streak down the middle, so incongruous against the plain, bleached sheets. It made him smile, somehow, that little bit of stylish primping Crowley was known for. 

“Planning on wearing black, then?” he wondered aloud. “Well, that is not so very surprising.”

“Did you ever doubt, ‘Zira?” a hoarse voice asked him, and the fingers in his tightened fractionally. Azira’s head came up, and he let out a rush of breath as a pair of golden eyes regarded him wearily from that pale, dear face. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” the Hufflepuff commented. “Regretting saying yes to the dance already, are you?”

Azira couldn’t help but laugh, although calling it a laugh was as accurate as calling it crying, he was so relieved. As Madame Pomfrey came rushing to her now conscious patient, he put a hand over his mouth as a clearly confused Crowley began answering her questions. Crowley’s gaze kept flitting from Azira to the healer and back, and his look was concerned and confused, so much so that when Azira’s eyes began to water, he stopped talking all at once.

“Hey now, what’s this? I’m not dead, am I?” He glanced at Pomfrey. “Am I? Did they kill me? My head hurts too much for me to be dead.”

“No one has killed you, young man,” the healer replied, huffily amused. “I imagine your friend feared the worst; you were rather out of it for a while.”

"How long have I been out? Did I miss the dance? 'Zira, don't tell me I missed the dance!"

"You didn't miss the dance. It's still tonight."

"Although you will have to restrict your dancing severely," Promrey instructed as she set off to the potions cabinet.

Crowley's look of outrage made Azira laugh. Crowley tightened his grip on his fingers, tugging them to his mouth. "Bugger that for a lark," he whispered fiercely, glaring at the healer's back as he pressed his lips to Azira’s fingertips. “We’re dancing the night away.”

Azira’s face burned.

Headmistress McGonagall made an art of expressing that she was Not Amused. Crowley didn’t quite squirm under her unrelenting gaze; after all, he was not in trouble. It was an effort though. 

“Are you telling me, Mr. Crowley, that you do not know who attacked you?”

“That’s right, Headmistress,” he replied as meekly as he knew how. “Some…”-tosser, arsehole- “... _ person _ was faffing about in the greenhouses, and I guess I caught them. My back was turned, and that …”-buggering maggot- “...bloody-”

“Language, Mr. Crowley,” the witch reminded him, in a surprisingly mild tone. “I agree with your obvious assessment of the person or persons responsible for the vandalism of our greenhouses, and stupefying you in the process of course. However, we must not let our disgust overshadow our efforts in determining what these villains were after, and who they are. Have you had any run-ins recently in the greenhouses that would lead you to suspect a motivation?”

“The only run-ins have been with my cousins, the usual family arguments, and I’m not sure if this was that personal. It seemed like they were looking for something, probably flowers for the dance. I was doing something similar, to be honest. It would have to be someone who isn’t familiar with the greenhouses, because they broke into a few that never have anything of worth… at least if you’re not a potion master.”

This was directed to one of the other adults in the office - Professor Snape, who quirked a cool half-smile where he stood next to a concerned Professor Sprout. 

“Luckily for them, they did not destroy those particular plants so essential to brewing, Mr. Crowley,” the Slytherin commented, in a tone that one felt like a shiver of malice down the spine. Crowley’s family had a lot to say about Snape’s involvement in the downfall of Voldemort, much of which directly contradicted what the new history books said, but there seemed to be a general agreement that Severus Snape was not a wizard to be messed with. No one who had wronged him would want to meet him in a dark alleyway, anyway.

“Be that as it may,” McGonagall said in a business-like tone, “I’ve spelled the greenhouses to give an alarm to anyone entering without the proper key, and you are to stay to the main corridors for the time being, in case this  _ was _ a personal attack, Mr. Crowley.”

Crowley was tempted to grumble, but he nodded to avoid any furthering of discussion and perhaps additional restrictions the headmistress and the professors might dream up. 

“...and do try not to antagonize your Slytherin cousins before you leave for the holidays,” Professor Sprout added with a knowing look. “There’s only so much excitement one can manage the day before boarding you all on the Hogwarts Express.”

“I’ll try if  _ they _ do,” Crowley muttered, but when Headmistress McGonagall cleared her throat with a stern look, he added: “Yes, Professor.”

Azira paced in the corridor outside the passage to the headmistress’s office, biting his nails and fluttering. Finally, the mechanism of the golden griffin that guarded the staircase spun into view and Crowley stepped out. “Anthony!” Azira cried, completely forgetting himself. 

Crowley’s face, which had been pale and solemn, brightened. He grinned widely, all teeth. It was then that Azira realized what he’d done and his hand flew to his mouth, eyes wide. “Oh, oh dear. That was rather too familiar, I’m so sorry!”

“I’m not,” Crowley responded fervently, grabbing up Azira’s hand. “I mean us to be rather familiar…” He pressed his lips to Azira’s knuckles, raising his eyes to examine the Ravenclaw’s shocked and blushing face. “...if that will be all right with you.”

“Wicked boy,” Azira breathed, blue eyes shining. “Save that for the ball tonight.”

The clock tower struck two and Crowley started. “Is it so late?”

“Late?” Azira glanced out the open arches of the corridor, and the sunlight spilling across the stone floors. “It’s barely after lunch, and the ball isn’t until 5 o’clock.”

“That’s only three hours to get ready, ‘Zira!” Crowley cried, releasing his hands and making a dash. “I’ll meet you at the stairs!” he called back. “Five o’clock!”

“Er, quite!” Azira managed. He followed at a more sedate pace and lost Crowley to the general foot traffic of the main hallways. Sighing, he headed toward the Ravenclaw tower and met Anathema along the way, with a few last parcels in her hands.

“Azira, how is he?” she asked breathlessly, walking with him the rest of the way.

“Tickety boo and all that. Well enough to panic about having only three hours to prepare for tonight,” he replied drily.

‘He has a point! I have to start on my hair as soon as we get back. These last things just came in by owl.”

Azira goggled at her. “How long does it take to brush your hair?”

“Just because you have perfect dandelion curls,” his friend reprimanded him, “doesn’t mean the rest of us can run a comb through, and throw something on. Beauty takes time. Time and potions and work. Oh, and did I tell you what Taxiarchis is wearing? Super modern, all indigo and silver, like some fashion magazine. Say what you will, the girl knows how to dress for any occasion.”

Azira chewed his thumbnail nervously. 

“Oh, do stop that! You don’t want ragged fingernails tonight!”

“Who on earth would even notice my nails?”

“ _ Crowley, _ you nitwit. That boy probably spends more cash on manicures than all of the girls dormitory combined.”

Azira stared at his uneven nails in horror. It was beginning to occur to him that three hours might actually not be enough time after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little about geas (singular) and geasa (plural): it was something I came across while studying Welsh mythology during college. Surprisingly, corvis_corvax came across the concept much younger in fantasy literature. It's pretty much a supernatural restriction placed upon a person or family. It can be a very simple restriction, like not touching certain items. The result of not heeding the geas can be painful or fatal.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this first installment! Feedback very much appreciated.


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